The Wipers

I keep turning on the windshield wipers. 

The problem is, it's not raining; it's just my readjustment time to driving in Australia again.  I've already attempted to start the car in the passenger seat three times now and as I look around to see if anyone is watching me, I am considerably aware that my brain is still awash with confusion.  Not only is jet lag still wrapping her lovely arms around me, I can't seem to remember what it's like to drive on the left hand side of the road.

When we first came to Australia, it took me a decent amount of time to figure out the mirrors, the driving column, the stick shift (yes, we started with a manual car which required that I shift with my left hand) and, certainly, the blinkers and windshield wipers - they call them windscreen wipers here but it doesn't make any sense because the windshield is not porous like the screen denying access to insects in our doors. 

Fortunately, the footpedals in the car are the same in Australia as in the U. S.  If they were reversed, I'd never be driving, but the windshield wipers (for the most part) are in use for my left hand and the blinkers for my right.  So, every time I attempt to turn the corner, I find myself smearing the windshield with the remains of suicidal insects.  Then, as I attempt to remember how to push the windshield fluid onto the screen to erase said scattered corpses of butterflies and grasshoppers, I have to pull over to the side of the road.  Those smears make it quite difficult to move forward.

The past gets a little smeary sometimes, I think.  There are many things that I've forgotten since I've moved here.  Well, not necessarily forgotten, just moved to another storage facility.  Since my brain has had to rewire and remember life here, things have streaked a little bit.  I sometimes forget what people sound like.  With sorrow, I try to reach through the fog and hear that whisper on the breeze what my grandparents sound like; I try to inhale deeply in hopes to catch a whiff of what their houses smell like, whether mothballs or mold, cookies or cakes.  I want to remember what it was like to be a kid and journey to Grandpa and Grandma's house so that my parents could have a break from the kids.

My Grandparents Matthias used to own the general store in the large metropolis of Frederika, Iowa population 150 give or take 100.  Connected to the back of the store is the locker, or butcher's palace, where my dad, along with his siblings, was allowed to have gainful employment as he was growing up.  I'm not sure he would have used those words, but kids in the 50's and 60's were given opportunities to work with their parents, which was an offer they literally could not refuse.  What I remember about the store was the sound of creaking floorboards, buzzing refrigerators encasing all sorts of dairy products and the wafting smell of dead meat from the palace.  My grandfather would come out sometimes with bloody apron on, smile broadly at the customers, ask them what kind of cut of meat they would like.  I often wondered what they thought of my Grandpa Matthias, the butcher, as he was short one pinky finger on his right hand.  Was this a sign of a good butcher, or a sign of some funky hamburger?

People would come from all over Frederika (probably twelve square city blocks) to purchase their goods from Grandpa and Grandma.  They worked that store for many, many years and each time we visited them, it seemed like something new would happen.  In the last year of working there, I still remember Grandpa taking me in the back and letting me watch him butcher a cow.  I suppose I could say that these were the facts of life, but I don't remember being hungry for a while - especially for ground beef.  After each visit, we received a treat - they spoiled us, I know: we could pick one thing from the candy counter whether Tootsie Rolls or Snickers bars.  It wasn't really a choice for me; I always went for the same thing...

Grape Hubba Bubba bubble gum.  Five big, squishy squares of processed sugar with which we could blow bubbles big enough to stick in our eyebrows. 

My grandparents still live in Frederika, in the same house that I remembered as I was growing up.  Their house has not changed, really; some new carpet which replaced the old, shag green, black and white that probably still retained the smell of Swisher Sweet cigars my great grandfather used to smoke while we played cards. 

We got to stay with my Grandpa and Grandma Matthias this trip.  We made sure to spend a few days with them and sure enough, they were ready to play cards.  One night I promised Elsa that Grandpa and Grandma would teach her how to play a card game.  I wrote down the rules and as we set up the brown, plastic covered card table that was easily forty years old in the middle of the living room, I rubbed my hands with glee.  It had been a long time since we'd played.

I looked at my grandpa across the table from me.  He looked ancient; like one of those wise sages who sit on top of a hill and dispense wisdom with guarded optimism.  His bifocaled glasses made his rheumy eyes look sad, but his smile cancelled that out.  Because he doesn't hear much, he generally sits in the background of most conversations smiling as if he has figured out what's really wrong in the world.  When he is holding cards, I feel closest to him.  My grandmother sat on my left, her legs protruding out from her seat.  She is shortish and has a wonderful laugh.  Although her hair is much whiter than I remember, her voice is still strong and she most often responds to all my statements: Huh, isn't that something.

It is something to be forty-one and have three of my grandparents still upright, alive and in ownership of full faculties.  And as we played cards, it became apparent just how little they had changed - that's a very good thing.  After I taught Elsa all the rules, and the regularities of playing the card game, Grandma did exactly the opposite of what I had just told Elsa.

My grandma likes to win.

That was a good night, but even as I write about it, it's starting to smear.  It's fading already and as much as I want to hold onto those moments, they will change.  We all do and that's okay. 

They are amazing people, my grandparents.  I'll write a little bit more about my maternal grandmother tomorrow - she won't want me to, but she's too nice to hack my computer.